Lunatics Abound!

They do. Without even trying, I have met three lately:

Loony #1:

Whilst I was at work, selling Food Bank bags at $8 apiece to benefit the hungry and starving of Baton Rouge (this is something that I have first-hand knowlege of), I approached an elderly gentleman, he of leonine countenance and snowy mane, and solicited his assistance in this worthwhile endeavour.

He wanted to know to whom the proceeds would be going, and I told him:"To buy food for hungry people in Baton Rouge." He considered this for a moment, then told me that one had to be careful just where things were going these days, lest that $8 find itself in the wrong hands. He then asked me what would be done with the food purchased for the Food Bank. I told him that I supposed that it would be eaten by hungry people.

He then involved me in a lengthy discussion of how world poverty was being manipulated by nefarious One World Government  plotters in order to bring about One World Religion, One World Government and One World Currency, that President Obama had recently signed a bill into law that would mandate these sweeping changes, and that the mysterious Bilderbergs (q.v.) were behind it. He rattled off a list of organisations who could tell me all about this plot (I was familiar with several, including the Heritage Foundation) and made me promise that I would look into this as soon as I could. I told him that it sounded like the Illuminati to me, that it sounded just like something they would do, and referrred him to Robert Anton Wilson. He didn't donate, but left resolved to track down the Illuminati.

Loony #2:

I got back to the Kamp (I have decided that this is a better spelling option), exhausted, and was taking a shower when I heard another client cursing in the shower. Thinking that he might have injured himself, I asked him if he was all right. He was a fat, hairy redneck guy who has a perpetually angry expression on his face, to whom I have not spoken before (he is a newbie). He told me that he really hated it at the Kamp. I concurred, and said that I was saving money so that I could leave Baton Rouge for parts elsewhere. He asked me why I wanted to leave, and I said because I couldn't find a decent job and I didn't like it here. He then said: "You're a motherfucking liar! You're fucking lying! I growed up in Baton Rouge and I wouldn't live anywhere else! Baton Rouge is the best town anybody could live in! You're a motherfucking liar!"

So much for commiseration. He's on my Do Not Feed! list.

Loony #3:

So, today, I was standing outside the Public Library, waiting for the doors to open. Several others were waiting, too, including the maintenance guy. I said hello to everyone, as is my wont, and said something to the effect that the weather had been unusually Spring-like for the past week or so. One of the waiting patrons, a tall, skinny fellow with long, dark hair who always dresses completely in black, commented:

"That's because of the weather control facility they have under the Bermuda Triangle. That's why they don't let planes fly over it. It's all part of that alien technology they got from Area 51 (I am not making this up, I swear!). It's called Project Icarus (wasn't that in a Bruce Willis movie?). Katrina was just a test: the next one is gonna wipe New Orleans off the map!" He then went on to tell all of us (enthralled as we were) that he had been told by the FBI not to discuss this with anybody or else, because he had hacked into top secret government websites and downloaded all of this tippy-top secret information that nobody else even knew about. He claimed that they were going to have to invent a Force Six designation, just to classify the next one!

I told him that the best way to keep Chinese satellites from beaming those microwaves into his head was to buy a cap and line it with aluminum foil.

Where do they come from? Why do they all want to talk to me?

Just lucky, I guess.

News From the Front (and Back)

I awakened this morning, as most mornings, to a respiratory symphony. Apparently, snoring has become a major problem in this country, whilst I slept. I, myself, have even been accused of snoring, although I have never heard myself doing it. I DO hear a lot of others doing it, particularly at Camp Winge-a-Lot. I never realised before how many varieties there are to nocturnal melody.

Some guys just buzz. Some buzzes are continuous with inhaling and exhaling, whilst others are more of a staccato or sequential series of mini-snores. There is one fellow whose stacatto buzz sounds something like: AHZZZ-AHHZZ-AHHZZ. Then, there are are the whistlers. One whistler sounds like: TWOOO-TWOOO-TWOOO. There are at least two groaners, who sound like this: AARRUUN-AARRUUN-AARRUUN; and two grunters: UNKH-UNKH-UNKH. There are also two snorters (thank God, the loudest one is in the other half of the dorm, which is seperated from me by a cinderblock wall), which sound like this: AWWRUCCH-AWWRUCCH. Cracks in the cinderblock are becoming alarmingly apparent.

Of course, mere onomatopoeia cannot really do these sounds justice. One night this week, I shall attempt to record some of these sounds on my mobile and (if I can ever figure out how to transfer these files using a public computer) post them on this blog, to the greater edification of my numerous (and apparently invisible) readership. Suffice it to say that the buzzers sound a lot like fire alarms, the whistlers like a chorus of demented whippoorwills, the groaners like diesel marine engines turning high revolutions, the grunters like grizzly bears in heat (I have never heard a grizzly bear in heat, but this is what I suppose it sounds like) and the worst, the snorters, like a garbage disposal of gargantuan size attempting to process a Blue Whale full of bottlecaps.

Put together, it sounds somewhat like this: TWOO-TWOO! AHZZZZZ! AARRUUNN!UNKH-UNKH! AWWRUCCH-AWWRUCCH! Of course, there is no real sequence or order to these different sounds (or, at least, I have not discerned one), and they occur at various volume levels. This also does not include the two babblers, who are not, per se, snorers, but who also contribute to the nighly cacaphony. One of them mumbles and shouts incoherently. The other one holds conversations in his sleep, mostly with a doctor, his mother, and someone named "Jake" or "Mike" (it's hard to make out, with all the noise).

When I first started living at Camp Winge-a-Lot, I had a pair of foam earplugs, which reduced the noise to a dull roar, but some pigfucker stole them from my nightstand. I hope he gets hearing AIDS! At any rate, it doesn't seem to keep me up much any more, except occasionally, when several of the effects combine simultaneously to produce earth tremors. I am of the opinion (so far unfounded) that something like this could have happened in Haiti. If this is true, South Louisiana could be next.

I hope I make it out of here before the Big One hits.

Camp Winge-a-Lot

After many desperate attempts to utilise the computers at the public library to access my blog, and running afoul of Websense, I have taken the extraordinary measure of using the public computers at Middleton Library, at LSU, which give me pretty much unlimited access, so long as I don't attempt to change any settings or meddle in things that I have no business meddling with (and probably don't really need to, anyway). I am still experimenting with some kind of method of uploading photo files to my blog without the use of my interface cable (which is somewhere in my storage unit) or Bluetooth. I have posted some photos to my Sprint photo site, and to Twitpics, but I haven't figured out quite how to transfer the files without saving anything on the computer. I now have a 4.0 GB flash drive, which I will be experimenting with today, hopefully, with some success.

So, about the shelter where I am now housed, which I refer to as "Camp Winge-a-lot", because of the proclivity of many of the residents (or, clients)to winge about just about anything and everything.

A lot of the fellows at the Camp are total losers. Sorry, but this is true. There are some fellows there who have run into a bit of hard luck (like I have)and wound up stuck with no place to go, at least temporarily. Then, there are others who are simply there, i.e., they are staying at the shelter until (a) they get thrown out for being fucked up; (b) miss their curfews (1800 for non-workers, 2000 for those working late); or wear out their welcome. The shelter is supposed to be a temporary fix, in order to allow "clients" some time in which to secure employment and save enough money to move on to more permanent living arrangements. This is my intent. I am decidedly not happy as a resident, and want to get my butt out of the place ASAP.

Residents are awakened from slumber in the spacious dormitory (which holds 30+ men)between 0445 and 0500, by having the lights switched on. I am almost always up at that time, as I have no desire to stay in the shelter any more than I have to. We have to leave by 0600, and are not allowed to return until 1600.

Upon returning to the Camp, "clients" (I love that word: same one they use in the Laughing Academy)must sign in by their bed number. If a client fails to show before the curfew time (either 1800 or 2000), or fail to sign in properly, he loses his bed, and cannot come back to the shelter. After 5 days, if he fails to claim his property and clothing, it is "donated" to the vast pile of used stuff that will eventually be given to someone else who is lacking in stuff.

Upon arrival, one must shower and put on clean clothing. There are some clients who do not have clean clothing (see "stuff", above)and there are also those who apparently would melt like the Wicked Witch of the West if water touched them. I take a shower, shave and put on clean clothes, which are kept in a locker with a sturdy lock on it.

Supper is generally served between 1730 and 1800. For those working late, "late plates" are prepared, which are notoriously skimpy, depending upon who is dishing out the fare. If you are lucky, there is enough to eat. Those who dine at table are usually allowed second helpings on a "first-come, first-served" basis. The food is donated by various groups, many of them religious (mostly Roman Catholic), but some simply families who do this as a public service. Most of these people are salt-of-the-earth types; many bring their kids along, which I think is an excellent way to expose children to the habit of Christian giving.

Clients are responsible for setting the tables and cleaning up after dinner, as well as sweeping and mopping the dormitory and lavatory area. This is supposed to be done on a more or less rotating basis, but, as things generally happen, there are those of us who actually care enough to do chores around the shelter and the majority, who don't. As a result, there are a handful of us who do pretty much all of the daily chores, whilst the rest sit on their fat behinds and watch television, or sleep.

Lights Out is at 2100 (but sometimes a bit later, if the shelter Warden of the evening is remiss in his duties, which can happen). There is no talking or mobile usage allowed in the dormitory, which means that there is talking and mobile usage in the dormitory. As I am not a basketball (which seems to be about the only thing on the television in the "Activity Room") fan, I usually retire to my bed after chores to read, so that I can, for a brief few minutes, forget where I am.

Of course, there are those who prefer the dormitory as a table for open discussion (usually very loud and punctuated with raucous laughter), so it often is not particularly quiet in the dormitories, except when "smoke break" is announced, and the smokers all go outside for a few minutes.

There are generally two topics of conversation which dominate: (a) how much pussy the speaker is getting, in graphic detail and (b) where to go to get free stuff, how to get free stuff and how much free stuff is availible. I thank God for such intellectual diversion.

I shall attempt to post a photo on this blog. The photo is of the sign in the dormitory, which spells out chores to be done each night. I have swepted the floor many a time, but never mopted it. I am not sure exactly how to mopt, but, as soon as I figure out how it should be done, I have no doubt that I shall be mopting away with the best of them.

Farewell from glorious Camp Winge-a-lot. More to follow.